“Your Honor,” Jasmine said, “that man is Quinn’s biological father.”
She didn’t look at Wayne Haller when she said it. She looked straight at the judge.
“He lost custody when she was one year old. After he put me in the hospital.” She stopped. Took a breath. “Broken orbital bone. Three cracked ribs. I was in the hospital for four days. Quinn was eleven months old. She was in the room when he did it.”
The courtroom was dead silent. I could hear the clock ticking on the back wall.
“The family court gave me sole custody. He got no visitation. None. And he’s had a protective order against him for two years. He’s not allowed within five hundred feet of me or my daughter. Not her home. Not her daycare. Not anywhere.”
Bradley Strand stood up. “Your Honor, I object. This is completely irrelevant to—”
“Sit down, Mr. Strand,” Judge Lindgren said, without even looking at him.
He sat down.
Jasmine took a deep breath.
“On March 14th, he walked into Quinn’s in-home daycare. It’s run by a lady named Miss Corliss. She’s sweet. She’s had Quinn since she was a baby. He told Miss Corliss there was a family emergency. He said I’d been in a car accident and he was taking Quinn to the hospital to see me. He showed her his ID. He showed her the birth certificate. He must have gotten a copy from the county somehow.”
She shook her head.
“Miss Corliss didn’t know about the protective order. I never told her. I was trying to put it all behind us. I thought he was gone. I thought he’d moved to Oklahoma.” Her voice broke. “That’s on me. I should have told her.”
“Take your time, Ms. Vela,” the judge said quietly.
Jasmine wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“I found out an hour later. Miss Corliss called my work to ask which hospital I was in. I was standing at the nurses’ station on the third floor. I dropped the phone.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I called the police. They issued an Amber Alert.”
Then she turned around.
She looked right at me.
“But by the time the Amber Alert went out,” she said, “the police already had his license plate. And a photo of his face. And a photo of my daughter in his back seat.”
My hand went up to my mouth.
“Because this woman stood in front of a door,” Jasmine said, “and asked my baby her name.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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